Things We Hide
by MultiplesOfThree
Summary: Secrets. Lies. Betrayal. Brooklyn.
1. Chapter One

**Chapter One**

I was seven years old when I first met Clara. I guess that's where my whole story begins. It's all sort of a mess, but there are two things I've realized since the beginning. The first is that I'm not always supposed to be strong. And the second is that sometimes you see people die.

My name is Rosa White, and I'm alive today because Spot Conlon isn't.

Growing up, I was neglected, to say the least. I was abused and underfed and I doubt the drunk that produced me would have ever been able to recall my name. I don't know where my father was growing up, and I guess I never really cared. My mother was enough to take care of without another alcoholic to push me around. I never had a childhood, and I never intended on having one. I experienced the same growth kids my age experience when they first fall in love the day that my mother first hit me. The first time my mother overdosed was when I matured enough to have a successful marriage and the second time was enough to have a successful divorce. "Fun" was not a word we used in our house. "Scum" and "dumbass" were, along with "tart", "hussy", and "ungrateful", words I often heard to describe me. For an entire year, my mother referred to me as Inga, the name of the only kind figure I remember knowing until I met Clara.

My mother had an upbringing I can't even dream of. Her parents were wealthy beyond belief, and raised her to be a proper young lady. She wore dresses and gloves, she went to balls and fancy parties. She was to become one of the wealthiest heirs in Connecticut. However, my mother made a mistake when she was around the age I am now. The same mistake I made. She fell in love. He was wrong for her in so many way, but young girls can never see that.

It's a classic story, one that's been told over and over again. He was dirt poor, growing up with only a mother and a little brother, whom he had to raise. In a way, my father was a lot like I would turn out, but he didn't know that yet. They fell in love and were even married, against the odds. But when my grandparents were killed in a fire and my mother inherited her fortune, she was left alone, her bank account empty and a baby growing within her. The only family she had left was a nanny she'd known since childhood.

For a while, Inga stayed with my mother. Inga helped birth me, she helped raise me, she taught my mother how to take care of a child. If my mother had taken Inga's advice and married another man who came her way, my life may have turned out differently. But Lauren White is not a woman to do things that do not follow her heart. So she decided to raise me alone, penniless and exhausted. When Inga could no longer afford to stay with my mother and I, my mother turned to the bottle for comfort. She thought she was drinking her problems away, when in fact she was simply passing them, and more, onto me.

The number of nights I spent making sure she didn't drown in her own vomit was ridiculous. The number of hours spent worrying about a woman who never realized whether or not I was home was unbelievable.

We've lived in New York, in the same apartment building I'm writing this in now, for as long as I can remember. I guess for a little bit we stayed in Connecticut when we had the money, but when my father, if I can even call him that, left, we moved to the only place we could remotely afford, a ground floor apartment in a steaming hot, crowded corner of Brooklyn. It's strange, but I can rarely remember winter in Brooklyn. It seems like it's always summer, like I'm always waiting for winter, and then the second winter arrives I can't wait for summer. Summers are what defined me, at least until I met Spot. I can thank Spot for that, above all other things. He helped me love the snow.

My mother died three months ago, but that's not what this story is about. She's only the beginning of my story, but Spot is the end. And Clara... Clara is the catalyst, she has made me who I am today, whether or not I am proud of it. Despite all that has happened in my life, between my mother and I, between Spot and I, and between Clara and I, I know that I will never regret the fact that Clara came into my life that July day.

I remember that day so clearly, I could probably paint it. And I'm hardly an artist. It was one of those days where it's too hot to go outside but too hot to stay inside, so you just sort of linger between one or the other, always waiting for a better option that never seems to arrive. I had finally decided to go outside to the docks, where I used to play and spy on some of the newsies that liked to hang out there. I was walking down the street, carrying a pair of shorts that I had stolen from the boy who lived in the apartment next to me. No one had ever told me it wasn't proper for a young lady to wear only her undergarments and a pair of boy's shorts in public, so I had never been self conscious.

The air was blowing around my curls and I was frustrated with the way everything seemed to stick to me. I was kicking the dirt around and trying to get it off of me when I heard a voice from behind me.

"Hey! Hey Red!"

It was a girl's voice with a thick accent that I quickly recognized as one from Queens. I knew she was calling me, but I hated responding to the name Red. The reason my name is Rosa is because apparently I had bright red hair the second I was born, and lots of it. My mother had been under the impression Rosa was Spanish for red. She was wrong. Turns out, it meant pink. That sort of sums up what the rest of my life would be like. My mother trying to make things right, and always failing. Never trying hard enough.

"Yeah?" I called, turning around.

She looked to be the same age as me, give or take a few months. She had hair so blond it looked white, and teeth the exact same shade. Her eyes were framed with the lightest eyelashes I've ever seen, but her pupils seemed to be drowning in a sea of blue. She was taller than me, but scrawnier. I could have taken her in a fight, if it came down to it. Growing up with a mother who fought like mine, I could have taken any girl, no matter what the age.

"You headed to the docks?" she asked, not kindly but not in a hostile way either. People were careful around each other in these parts, even seven year old girls.

"Yeah. You?" I asked, careful not to act too open.

"Yeah. Walk with me?" she asked, taking a step towards me. Officially, in Brooklyn terms, we were now considered friends.

It's funny, how easily, yet at the same time paranoid, our relationship began. It kind of set the standard for our entire friendship. One minute it'd be easy as can be, just two girls selling papers, and the next we'd be fighting over something or other.

We were inseparable, however, from that point on. We went to the docks almost every day in the summer, and I spent most of the time in the winter months at her house, because they had an actual fireplace.

Her family wasn't exactly perfect, but from my view point, it was the idea family. By that I meant that she had two parents, both who were usually sober, at least until the sunset. They were married, and the fact that they fought all the time never mattered much to me. There was food on the table, usually enough for me to eat over.

I caught on to Clara's family's secrets almost as quickly as I had caught on to my own family's. I knew what knocks meant to hide behind the couch at her house, and I knew what her mother meant when she said Clara's father had problems with "cards". He was addicted to gambling and at least once every two weeks, a new collector was coming to their house, trying to take something else away.

Regardless of their problems, Clara's family took me in to join the five kids they already had. When I came over with a black eye or new bruises, they told me to stay the night until my mother "cooled down". When I came over with bags under my eyes, Clara's mother somehow knew I had been up all night, taking care of my mother, and she instantly told me to lay down for a bit of a rest. Clara's mother was like the mother I never had, a mother I never imagined I would get.

However, because of both of our money problems, Clara and I had to get jobs by our thirteenth birthdays. Growing up going to the docks with the Newsies seemed to make things a lot easier. By the time we were thirteen, the youngest of the boys who hung around there were younger than us.

At the time, a boy they called Charcoal ruled the Brooklyn newsies. He was the tallest boy I had ever seen, with skin so dark he seemed to blend in at night. But when he smiled at you, it was as if he was so light he could float away. He was a nice kid, but he was a tough kid, and you didn't mess with Charcoal. He was only fifteen when Clara and I first went to ask him for a job, but you would have thought he was thirty years old by the way he talked down to us. However, with a bit of pleading, he let us join his ranks, making us promise not to "mess with any of his boys". We had no intention to mess with the newsies, because I knew as well as Clara that boys like newsies grow up to be men like my father.


	2. Chapter Two

**Chapter Two**

Being a female newsy was not easy. By the time I was fifteen, I was a full grown woman, with curves and porcelain skin that was soft to the touch. My eyes were shadowed by long, dark lashes that Clara claimed would stop a man in his tracks if I blinked in his direction. I knew I was pretty, but I knew I would never be as alluring as Clara. Her hair was as smooth and blond as can be, the exact opposite of my luminescent curls. Her eyes were big and so blue people seemed to fall right into them. However, being beautiful was not something newsies were. Newsies were the roughest of the kids in Brooklyn, and beautiful girls were the girls that went to New York to try dancing in one of the shows Medda ran across the city. I was not a dancer, though. I was a tough girl, the kind of girl who fought with her body, not the kind who seduced with it. Even after two years, it took a lot to get respect as a female in this world.

Everything began on a Tuesday morning. It's funny, how rare it is to actually recognize the life changing moments when they're occurring. You wake up in the morning, you shower, you put on some clothes. You never seem to realize what you're going to be up against that day, until it's too late to fight back.

Spot Conlon entered my life September 4th, 1898. I was sixteen years old and I was finally getting some respect on the street as one of Charcoal's highest selling newsies.

"Rosa," I heard Clara yell that morning. It was early, but I was heading to get some breakfast anyway. I hadn't realized Clara had woken up when I had. It was one of the nights I spent in her apartment, one of the nights where I came to sell papers with a black eye that I knew would get me into trouble. No one wants to buy from a pretty girl who looks like she's involved in bad business.

"No one knows it was from her, Rosa," Clara said as she caught up, reading my mind like she usually did. "It could have been from any old fight."

"Come off it, Clara," I spat, being more rough with her than I meant to. "Everyone knows Lauren hits me."

"No they don't."

I wasn't sure if Clara was trying to make me feel better or was just naïve. Either way, I wasn't having it.

"Drop it," I whispered as we approached the cart we usually bought our fruit from. "We'll talk later."

"Two bananas and a muffin," Clara said, pulling a few coins out of her tattered pocket. I knew I earned more than she did, but I didn't stop her from buying my breakfast. Clara likes to think that buying me things occasionally cheers me up. I don't like to make her think it doesn't.

"That's quite the shiner, Rosa," Jimmy said as he handed us our breakfast. "Another street fight?"

"It's rough out here," was all I responded with. I liked that people thought I was tougher than I really was. I liked that people thought I fought for fun instead of for a bed to sleep in.

We walked down to the newsstand without talking much. We were the first there, before the gates had opened, so we sat down on the gravel and split our muffin, eating silently. We could hear the boys before we saw them, wandering down the street and making such a racket that I wouldn't have been surprised if Old lady McFee had poured water on them from her window again.

"What happened to you, Rosa?" Spitsy asked as he reached us. Spitsy was one of the rare guys who treated Clara and I like people rather than pieces of meat, but that didn't mean I liked the kid.

"Street fight," I answered. "Leave it alone."

"Charcoal's going to yell at you again," Spitsy said, a slight smirk in his voice.

"Charcoal doesn't scare me."

He didn't scare me, but that didn't mean I wanted to get yelled at.

The gates swung open, saving me from the chance of bumping into Charcoal before I had papers to cover my eye with. I rushed in, hurrying to get in line next to Clara. She knew the drill, having dealt with my injuries before, so she stood next to me, blocking me from most of the guys views.

"How does Charcoal look today?" I whispered to Clara. She took longer than she needed to look at him. "Clara, you're drooling a little."

"Shut up," Clara said, hitting my arm. It's safe to say everyone in Brooklyn knew how Clara felt about Charcoal. "He looks fine. Not angrier than yesterday, but definitely less angry than last Thursday."

Last Thursday had been a bad day. My mom had pushed me down that night, and I had gotten a cut all along my cheek. I still had a faint scar. Considering how much Charcoal had yelled at me that morning, I figured it would be pushing my luck to see him with a new injury before the old had heeled.

"Why don't you just explain your situation to Charcoal?" Clara asked. She seemed to think Charcoal was the sweetest man alive, and that if I just laid my problems out in front of him, he'd sweep them into this palm of his hand and save me.

Needless to say, I was leaning more towards the naïve Clara side of things.

"The only solution he could possibly give me would be to live in the guy's bunkhouse until things got better at home," I answered, shaking my head. I began to count the coins from my pocket in the palm of my hand, trying to figure out how much to spend today. "I don't think living with a bunch of hormonal boys would be much safer than living with my mother."

People often got the wrong impression of us newsies. They thought we all stuck together. A year from the day I met Spot, we would all be friends, after the strike. But at that moment, we were just a bunch of kids, competing to get enough cash to put food on the table. Those boys were not my brothers, they were my competition. And brothers may not try any funny business, but competition has no problem catching a cheap grab with the pretty ladies that walk past.

"I've told you a thousand times you could live with my family," Clara said, her voice tilting towards the whining side.

"And I've told you a thousand times that your parents have enough on their hands with the six of you and your dad's 'cards'." I hissed at her. I had just finished counting my money and realized I only had brought enough for 80 papers today.

Clara, who had watched me count, put her arm around me. "Don't sweat it. It's better you only buy 80. You'll probably have to eat a lot of them if you'd buy any more."

"Are you implying I won't have a good selling day?"

"I'm implying that you've got a black eye and a mean attitude," Clara said, pulling her arm off from around me.

We stepped up to the paper vendor. I prayed that the Grunter knew what had happened to my eye, like he usually did. Some days, however, he forgot and would tend to ask too loudly. Those were the days when I get scolded by Charcoal. I did not need to have one of those days.

Luckily, the Grunter just gave me my papes with one of his characteristic grunts. I smiled at him and he winked, just subtle enough that only Clara and I saw it.

I could have jumped for joy just then, knowing I was free to run towards the streets and sell as many as I could, easily avoiding Charcoal. Clara and I began to scan the papers as we walked away from the boys, looking for a yell-worthy title.

"Rosa! Wait a second!"

I stopped dead in my tracks. My stomach dropped and my fists tightened around the edges of the paper I was holding. I knew Charcoal's voice well, and I knew my name. This was not going to be a good morning.

"Yeah?" I asked, closing my eyes and praying to God or whoever was up there that he'd say 'nevermind' and walk away.

"Can you come here a sec?" his voice sounded innocent enough, but Charcoal was the best liar in the borough.

My mind instantly began to whirl. Who had told him? It had to have been either Spitsy or the Grunter. My money was on Spitsy. That kid always did seem to love watching me fight.

"Yeah," I said quietly. I turned around slowly, knowing Clara's eyes were on me the whole time but avoiding eye contact. I kept my eyes level, right against Charcoal's as I approached him.

"There's someone I want you to meet," Charcoal said, not even wincing as he saw my eye.

"Really?" I asked, the word breathy as I exhaled the air I hadn't even realized I had been holding in.

"Yes," Charcoal said, raising his eyebrow. "Unless there's something else you'd like to discuss."

Instead of answering, I turned to look at the kid standing next to him. He was taller than me, and strong. I began to wonder if I could take him in a fight. He had big arms, good arms. The kind of arms I had always dreamed about being held by, but I pushed away that thought. There was a scar running all the way up his left arm. For a split second, I wanted nothing more than to trace that scar right up to his lips. I wanted to touch those lips with my finger until they became a part of me.

"Rosa, is it?" he asked in a thick Brooklyn accent that matched mine perfectly, finally looking directly at me.

Our eyes didn't just meet, they collided.

"Yeah," I whispered, but not realizing how quiet I was. It felt like this thick silence hung around the two of us just then and I didn't want to break it.

"Show him around, will ya?" Charcoal asked me, pulling me out of this trance that boy had put me in. "He's new, but he's not new."

I knew what that meant. It meant he was new to selling papers but wasn't new to the streets. That would explain the scar and the accent. I smiled now, my first genuine smile of the morning.

"What's his name?" I asked Charcoal, but I kept my eyes on the kid. He didn't look away either.

"Spot Conlon," Charcoal said. It was one of the moments I didn't recognize, but now, looking back, I want to scream, I want to wave my arms around and let the me of the past know that those two words would change my life.

"Spot Conlon," I repeated. The words rolled off of my tongue like warm, sweet liquid.


End file.
